


Anecdoche

by Tea_For_One



Category: Magisterium Series - Holly Black & Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alex is a Problem Child™, Angst, But mostly angst, Constantine taught Call magic, Cursed AU, Cursed!Call, Fantasy AU, Knight!Aaron, M/M, Princess!Tamara, Slow Burn, and fluff, this burn is gonna be slower than a tan person wearing spf 150 sunblock so buckle up honey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_For_One/pseuds/Tea_For_One
Summary: Callum Hunt's first life ended when he turned twelve years old, being forced from his home, his father, and everything else he knew before. His new life began with Constantine Madden, the Enemy of Death itself, who promised to teach him magic out of "the good of his heart".After three years of studying with the famous makar, Call's world was shattered once again when he received a curse from his peer, Alex Strike, who was jealous of the favor that Constantine demonstrated towards Call. As a result, Call was doomed to remain alone inside of the empty halls of the Madden manor, made into a monster by his own magic as Alex seemingly vanished forever.However, nearly two years later, Alex emerges again as next in line for the throne of Magisteria, where he is revered as a great mage. Call is the only one who knows the evil that his former peer is willing to bend to, and thus is the only one able to stop him before chaos reigns in the kingdom.In order to stop Alex's takeover, Call must find trust in his two new friends, Aaron and Tamara, to break the curse and reveal Alex for what he truly is. The only problem? Getting to the capital before it's too late.
Relationships: Callum Hunt & Aaron Stewart, Callum Hunt & Tamara Rajavi, Callum Hunt/Aaron Stewart
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	Anecdoche

**Author's Note:**

> Don't @ me for the terrible summary, I wrote it at midnight.

It wasn’t a rainy day, per say. It was only drizzling outside. The pitter-patter of drops falling onto the roof of the small cottage was quiet enough to be mistaken for the memory of a past downpour. It was as if someone asked you to remember what the rain sounded like, but you could only recall an echo of how it was supposed to sound. 

A different sort of pitter-patter filled the cottage as Callum Hunt half limped, half ran down the steps leading up to the tiny attic room. It was dangerous to do so, mainly because the steps were very narrow and tightly tucked away against the corner of the main room, but he didn’t care. It was his birthday today, and everyone knew that when it was your birthday you didn’t have to play by ordinary rules.

As he cleared the last step he nearly tumbled onto the floor, but managed to catch himself on one of the many bookshelves in the room at the last moment. He brushed his dark hair out of his eyes and looked around. Alastair Hunt, his father, wasn’t in the room. In his stead, there was a small package wrapped in brown paper sitting on the kitchen table. 

Of course, it wasn’t really a  _ kitchen _ table. It was simply a table. The main room of the cottage was a blend of both a kitchen and a sitting room. It also served as Alastair’s library, seeing as how there weren’t many other places to put the numerous bookshelves they owned. The other two rooms in the cottage were the attic, where Call slept, and Alastair’s room that also doubled as his workshop, which branched off of the main room.

Call eagerly bounded up to the table, picking up a small scrap of paper bearing his father’s distinct spidery handwriting.

_ Happy 12th birthday, Callum. _

_ Alastair _

His dad had never been very good with heartfelt messages, but Call appreciated the effort nonetheless.

Call’s hands shook slightly with excitement as he lifted up the gift, rattling it gently and trying to guess what was inside. His grey eyes slid over to the front door of the cottage, wondering if he was allowed to open it before Alastair got back. The note would imply that, yes, he could, but…

His eyes narrowed a little as he gently put the package down. He’d rather not risk it. He sank down into one of the two handcrafted wooden chairs.

Luckily he didn’t have to wait long. A few moments after he sat down, the door opened and Alastair walked in, slightly damp from the rain. He gave Call a slight smile and a nod of acknowledgment as he closed the door behind him. He held a small bundle under his arm. It could have been food or perhaps another book to place on the already overflowing shelves. 

Most of the books that Alastair owned were ancient and severely damaged. His father spent most of his time restoring them and then bringing them back to his second-hand store, Now and Again, that was several miles away in the local village. The store dealt both with books and old knick-knacks that Call, personally, saw nothing special in. It was a long walk there, but Alastair had never attempted to move closer, preferring the privacy that the cottage provided. 

Call had been allowed to accompany Alastair a few times here and there into the town, but was mostly restricted to the cottage and the surrounding forest. To the townspeople, Call was an odd boy that appeared every once in a while to aid Alastair. Most didn’t even make the connection that Call was Alastair’s son, and those that did didn’t think much of it.

For a long time, Call had believed that Alastair kept him isolated because of his leg, but the more he thought about it, the more he came to the realization that Alastair simply didn’t want other people prying into his private life. Call was his son, and it didn’t exactly get more private than that.

“Good morning, Callum,” Alastair said eventually. 

“Good morning, Dad,” Call replied, his eyes sliding from Alastair to the gift and then back to Alastair. 

His father chuckled quietly. “You can open it, Call. I promise it won’t bite you.”

Now given permission, Call jumped at the chance to tear the paper off of the box. His fingers scrambled to find an edge of the wrapping, finally seizing one and—

There was a knock at the door. Alastair’s previous easygoing expression faded quickly as his face went alarmingly pale. He looked back at the door. Call stopped opening his gift and looked questioningly at his father. He’d never seen that look on his face before. His eyes were wide, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Call knew that Alastair was afraid, if not terrified. But of what?

“They’ve come for you,” Alastair said, so quietly that Call almost thought he was talking to himself.

“Who?” Call asked, confused. Whoever it was knocked on the door again, this time causing the old wood to rattle on its hinges.

“Alastair Hunt,” called a deep, masculine voice. The man sounded awfully calm for how aggressively he was beating on the door. Alastair tore his gaze away from the door and in a flash he was standing in front of Call, his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“Call, listen to me,” Alastair said, his voice low. His tone made it hard for Call to  _ not _ listen. Alastair’s gray eyes were difficult to avoid normally, but were especially so now that they were filled with a terrible and intense mix of both fear and ferocity. “You need to run. You need to get out of the cottage and run towards the woods,  _ do you hear me _ ?”

Call stared at his father in a daze. “But…how?” He asked, his eyes sliding over to the door--the only door in the cottage--and then back to Alastair. Not only would he have to make past whoever was banging on the door, but he would also have to escape into the cover of the forest before he--or they, if there were multiple people--could catch him. It was an almost impossible feat considering his bad leg.

But Alastair’s expression didn’t waver. “I’ll distract him. You hide and wait for an opening. You’re smart, Callum, I know you can figure it out from there.”

Call swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling very dry, and nodded. Both of their attention snapped back to the door as it rattled again.

“Alastair, the time has come,” the man said, a little more severe this time. Alastair’s hands tightened on Call’s shoulders.

“Call, whatever you do, you cannot let them catch you,” he said quietly. The confusion and intensity of the situation stabbed at the back of Call’s eyes, threatening tears as he nodded stiffly. Then, unexpectedly, Alastair pulled him into a tight hug. Call didn’t have time to react as his father pulled away quickly and hissed, “ _ Hide _ .”

Call didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled to find a hiding place, looking all around the main room for a spot that would provide both obscurity and a quick escape. Eventually, he settled on squeezing himself behind the bookshelf that was closest to the main entrance. His eyes met Alastair’s briefly, and his father nodded grimly at him before looking away and approaching the door. 

He opened it quickly, but whoever was on the other side didn’t seem bothered by his sudden appearance.

“Rufus,” Alastair said, his tone polite but laced with ice. “What do you want?”

Call couldn’t see Rufus, as his face was being pushed against the wall by the bookshelf. He could, however, see Alastair’s expression. He had never seen his father look so cold, so  _ angry _ . Whoever this Rufus man was, he had clearly done something to warrant Alastair’s glare. 

“You know what I want, Alastair. It is Callum’s 12th birthday, and he has shown enough proficiency in magic that he is eligible to be enrolled in the Magisterium.”

_ Magic? _ Call thought. Alastair had never said anything about him being able to use magic. Call was nearly certain that magic didn’t even exist. He’d never seen it, so why should he believe in it? Magic was a fairytale that the children in the village played around with, it wasn’t  _ real _ .

“Callum is dead, Rufus. He died at La Rinconada with Sarah. You of all people should know that.” There was definite venom in his voice now, and Call suspected that Alastair wasn’t so much distracting Rufus as he was yelling at him. His heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest. Why was his father saying that he was dead? What was La Rinconada? What did Rufus have to do with it? This entire morning had dissolved so quickly into a sequence of one shocking revelation after another. Call wasn’t even sure that he was able to make sense out of any of it. 

What really shocked him, though, was the mention of his mother’s name. Alastair rarely spoke of Call’s mother, but on the precious few times he had, Call would soak in every word like a sponge. One of those words had been Sarah. Call’s hand tightened into a fist against the firm wood of the bookshelf.

A long silence passed, but the angry look did not fade from Alastair’s face. He simply glared out of the doorway presumably at the man standing there. After a while, Rufus finally spoke.

“I did not come here for you to throw the past in my face, Alastair. I came for the boy. I know he is not dead, the Magisterium found him, as we find can find any aspirant. We can both admit that many mistakes have been made, but Callum--”

“He’s not going with you,” Alastair interrupted, sounding like he had to force the words out slowly in order to keep his cool. Call could hear his heart beating its way out of his chest. Maybe this Rufus would go away. Maybe Alastair could  _ make  _ him go away. Maybe he wouldn’t have to run.

All of Call’s hopes, however, were dashed with Rufus’ next words. 

“Move aside, Alastair.” A man pushed through the doorway and Alastair stepped back. Rufus was tall, dark skinned, bald, and very weary looking. Call had subconsciously imagined him as a big, burly, threatening man but instead he just looked...old. Tired, even. Like the past never allowed him to rest.

“You can’t just come into my home like this,” Alastair retorted, stepping further back into the cottage as he was pursued by Rufus. Call realized after a moment that his father was providing him an opening, drawing Rufus away from the door so that Call could make his getaway. “After everything you’ve done to my family...Why can’t you just leave me  _ be _ ?”

Rufus sighed, the weariness showing again. “Alastair, be reasonable. You know as well as I that an untrained mage is dangerous--”

“Then I’ll train him,” Alastair said, interrupting him again. “If I train him, he doesn’t need to go to the Magisterium.” 

Call didn’t know what Alastair was talking about. He didn’t know what either of them were talking about, really. Him? A mage? How could Alastair teach him to be a mage? Was Alastair a mage too? Call had so many questions buzzing through his head that he forgot he was supposed to be making his escape.

“You’ve had twelve years to teach him,” Rufus replied, his voice controlled, but clearly getting exasperated. “Where is the boy, Alastair?”

Alastair’s eyes subconsciously flicked to the bookshelf where Call was hiding. It was only for half a second, but Rufus caught the movement. He whipped around and looked directly at Call, who had just remembered that he was probably supposed to be deep into the woods by now. 

Rufus took a step towards the bookshelf, and Call felt was seized by panic. “Come out of there, Callum, don’t be afraid.”

Call was  _ very _ afraid. He trusted his father far more than he trusted this man who had interrupted his birthday to upset Alastair and scare Call half to death. 

Rufus took another step forward and Call acted on instinct. He used all of his weight to push the bookshelf in front of him down. It fell forward and Rufus’ eyes widened in surprise as the many books that had been neatly stacked inside it began to fall onto both the floor and himself. Rufus, shockingly, managed to catch the shelf before it crushed him, but not before it smashed painfully into his face. He groaned in agony, jumping back and holding his nose as he let the bookshelf fall to the ground with a loud crash that set Call’s teeth on edge.

Call seized the opportunity to make his escape, dashing out of the front door. Rufus managed to recover soon after, holding his hand out and yelling, “No, Callum, stop! It is not what you think!” Call looked over his shoulder briefly in time to see Rufus start running after him, only to be grappled by Alastair.

“Run, Call!” Alastair screamed. Rufus was trying to push Alastair off of him, but Alastair was clearly younger and stronger. Call didn’t waste any time. 

He ran, pain shooting up his leg with every step, but the adrenaline kept him going until he’d reached deep into the forest. The entire time Call ran, he didn’t dare look back. The trees became thicker the further he went, and soon enough he wasn’t able to see where he was going. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he forced them back and kept moving forward. His mind was such a terrible mix of confusion and fear. He kept running, deeper and deeper into the trees, until his foot snagged on an odd root and he fell forward. 

He struck the ground, his hands falling onto coarse dirt with lots of little stones that cut into his palms. He hissed in pain as he sat back and looked at his stinging palms. His pants had torn at the knees from the force of the fall. His shirt was ripped from the various branches it had been caught on. Call shook his head. He probably looked like a total wreck.

But…he also felt like a total wreck.

Call, who had finally caught his breath after running so long and hard, was suddenly flooded by the emotion of everything that had just happened. He thought about Alastair, how upset he had been, how he had tackled Rufus to the ground so Call could escape. He thought about the strange man named Rufus, how he had said Call was a mage, how he talked about this “magisterium” that Call was apparently supposed to go to. He thought about his birthday present. He wondered if he would ever get to open it.

Against his best judgement, Call looked back. He half expected to see Rufus barreling towards him. He half hoped his father would emerge out of the forest and tell him it was going to be alright. He didn’t see either. Instead, he saw the root he had tripped on. Only...it wasn’t a root. It was a strange looking stone with a swirl pattern carved into it, slick from the rain. Call crawled towards it, wincing when the cuts on his knees scraped the muddy dirt, and touched the stone lightly.

He jumped back in surprise when the stone started to glow brightly. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something else glow. He turned his head and scooted over to it, brushing some branches out of the way to reveal another stone. He looked up, and, sure enough, more and more stones started to light up until there was a large circle of them. The light began to pour out of them and swirl into the center of the circle, creating a bright white vortex. 

Call, amazed, rose to his feet, momentarily forgetting the pain in his leg in his awe at the circle of pure light in front of him. He leaned down and hovered his hand over the swirling vortex. Then, as if the light was drawing him in, he stepped forward into it, feeling like he was in a dream. The moment he touched it, his body was filled with a strange sensation, like a shiver running up his back. Call panicked for a moment, not knowing what was happening. Then, just like that, his vision went white.

  
  


When Call opened his eyes, though he couldn’t remember closing them, he was suddenly being hurled into the air. He landed hard on the ground, but this time, instead of coarse and rocky soil, he landed on soft dirt that nestled bright green shoots of fresh grass. His head shot up and he looked around, his breathing ragged from panic. 

His surroundings were entirely different than they had been before. Instead of a thick cover of trees, Call was in the middle of what looked like a small field. A few hundred feet away, he could see a gigantic house--at least, bigger than any house he’d ever seen--that seemed to stretch up towards the sky. 

There were still a few trees, but these ones were a type that Call had never seen before, which was saying something, considering that he’d grown up on the edge of a forest. These trees were taller, older, and sparser than those in the forest surrounding the cottage. Their trunks were thick and had an odd silverish hue to them. In the light breeze their spear-like leaves rattled, singing ballads of their ancient knowledge.

Under one of these such trees was a man, who was kneeling in front of a large stone. Call squinted, trying to make out the man’s features. His hair was a dark brown, but greying at the edges, like Alastair’s was. He was completely focused on the stone in front of him and didn’t seem to notice Call at all.

Call rose cautiously to his feet, ignoring the pain in his leg in favor of edging closer to the man. As he neared the tree, he could hear bits and pieces of what the man was saying.

“Joseph seems to...apprentices. Alex Strike...promising but...candidate for…”

Call crept closer and the man suddenly stopped talking. Call froze, thinking that he’d been found out, but the man simply reached out a hand and placed it on top of the stone. Call was close enough to see that it was engraved.  _ Jericho Madden _ . With a shock, he realized it was a gravestone.

The man bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Jericho,” he said, his tone edged with a sadness that Call knew only too well from the way his father spoke. It was the tone of someone well acquainted with loss.

Then, much to Call’s surprise, the man turned very suddenly but calmly to Call. The side of his face that Call had seen before was normal: brown hair, high features, etcetera. One might even go on to call him handsome. But, as he turned, Call could see that the other half of his face was horribly scarred. The skin pulled apart at itself in some places and bunched together in others, looking as if it had been melted. Call took a step back at the sight of it, taken off guard.

“Can I help you?” He asked. His eyes were gray, like Call’s, and they held something in them that was both frightening and fascinating, like a storm that you couldn’t look away from.

Call, who had been so caught up in the appearance of the stranger, had failed to answer in a timely fashion. Instead, with the man’s expectant gaze upon him, Call scrambled for something to say. His eyes landed on the tall mansion in the distance.

“Is…” Call started. The man stared at him patiently, waiting for him to form a coherent sentence. “Is this the Magisterium?”

To his surprise, the man laughed, very loudly and with unmasked amusement as if Call had just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Call shifted awkwardly on his feet, waiting for the man to stop laughing.

The man wiped a tear from his eye and smiled at Call. “Oh, the  _ irony _ . Tell me, why in the world would you think this is the Magisterium?”

Call looked at the ground, an embarrassed blush creeping up his neck. “I, um, I don’t know. The guy from the Magisterium showed up and when I ran out of there I wound up here, so…” Call wasn’t entirely sure how to finish his thought. He’d just blurted out the question in the first place. It wasn’t like he was thinking these things through.

“Someone from the Magisterium spoke to you?” The man asked, standing up from where he was kneeling on the ground. He was tall. Really tall. Call resisted the urge to step back again, nodding instead.

The man hummed to himself and looked Call up and down, no doubt noting his torn clothes and his slanted posture (a side effect of his bad leg). “What is your name?” He asked.

“Call,” Call blurted out quickly, then, taking a breath and reorganizing his thoughts, he corrected himself. “Callum Hunt.”

The man raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Hunt? Interesting.” He started to pace around Call, who was starting to feel a little uncomfortable.

“Um, who are you?” Call asked, twisting around to watch the man circle him. The man stopped in front of Call and grinned down at him. His smile was composed, but Call could tell there was something wild behind it, something that was unhinged and probably dangerous that swirled around behind those gray eyes of his. A storm. A calamity.

“I...” the man started, letting the first word hang in the air. Call could feel anticipation building for the words to follow, “...am Constantine Madden.”


End file.
